Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (9 page)

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Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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It suddenly hit her that she hadn’t considered any details past their nuptials—where or how they would live, before and after his graduation. Everything had happened with the force and urgency of a tornado. Besides thoughts of her father, the sole concern crouching in the back of her consciousness had been her brother.
As far as TJ knew, she was traveling with Jo to visit the Allisters’ cousins in Sacramento for the weekend. To cover her bases, she’d told Jo she would be away for a performance. This time, more than any other, she’d despised fibbing. She just couldn’t jeopardize complicating her decision with others’ opinions. Better to ease them into the news once all was solidified.
Lane turned her around with care. “All of that,” he said, “we can talk about later. This is our wedding night, and I don’t want you to worry about anything.” He pressed her hand to his chest. “Just know, I’m going to take care of you, Maddie. So long as we’re together, the rest will work out.”
The assertion cradled her, as solid and real as the throbbing of his heart. With every beat, the trust he had nurtured expanded, pressing down her defenses.
She linked her hands behind his neck and brought him to her. Lane trailed kisses across her cheek, into the curve of her neck. A soft moan escaped her. No longer would they hide in the darkness of a drive-in, shadowed by worries of who might see. From the freedom they’d been granted—in the eyes of God and the law—she yearned to be closer than ever before.
Sensibility, nonetheless, reminded her to do this right. She forced herself to pull away from the magnetism of his hold. “I’d better freshen up,” she rasped.
He paused before yielding a nod, his breathing heavy.
Regaining her composure, she slipped into the bathroom fit for a palace. Steam crawled up the mirrors as water filled the porcelain tub. She unboxed a bar of honey-milk soap and, when the bath was ready, twisted off the faucets. In the vaporous space dripping with gold and marble, she removed her clothes, then remembered. She’d left her nightgown in her suitcase.
Drat.
A problem, yes, but easily remedied. She threw on a plush hotel robe from the door hook. To fetch her garment, she would sprint both to and from her luggage. That was the plan, anyhow, until she stepped into the room, its fabric-lined walls aglow with candles on the nightstand.
“Thirsty?” Lane’s voice came gently from the side, inches from her ear. The smell of champagne sweetened his breath. Candlelight flickered over his bare chest and down the muscles of his stomach. At the sight of his pajama pants, relief battled disappointment, her curiosity swelling.
She ignored the flute of champagne in his hand and ran her fingers along the contours of his shoulders. For years, while he and TJ played basketball at the park, she had witnessed a younger, leaner version of this very chest, these same arms. She’d pumped away on the swings, on a pendulum in her own universe. That girl had no inkling that one day the touch of his skin would ignite passion that stole her breath.
Lane set aside his glass and led her to the bed. When he lowered her onto the cream comforter, billowy with down, she closed her eyes. His fingers traced the collar of her robe and edged the fabric away from her body. Her breasts prickled from a tepid draft of air. Her mind grew dizzy approaching the act she knew little about, outside scandalous passages from a book Jo once swiped from beneath an older brother’s mattress
.
“
My nightdress,” Maddie murmured, recalling her mission.
Sensing his movements had stopped, she lifted her lids and discovered him gazing at her, his head propped on an elbow. A tender smile crinkled the skin bordering his eyes. “I don’t think you’ll need it,” he said. “But if you’re saying you want to slow down ...”
The compassion in his voice soothed her unease, drawing her into another dimension like she’d thought only music could. She rose up and placed her mouth on his. Their bodies soon discovered a natural rhythm, and all reservations fell into an abyss. For it was here, safe in the heat of his arms, Maddie came to believe anything was possible. The rest of the world be damned.
 
Like their night of lovemaking, waking up next to Maddie—his
wife—
surpassed any expectation. Lane never wanted to leave the surreal bubble encasing them. Only from the incessant grumbling of his stomach did he agree to her suggestion that they venture out for a meal. It was, after all, almost noon.
With her arm hooked snugly around his, they emerged from the hotel. Once a block down, he pointed to a restaurant across the street. “That’s the one.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “It’s the fanciest diner in town.”
“Nope. Just the closest. I’m starving.”
She laughed. “Oh, and whose fault is that?”
He whispered in her ear, “I’m happy to take the blame. Last night was worth it.”
“
And
this morning,” she reminded him.
Her growing brazenness made him want to flip around and head straight back to their hotel room.
They’d make it a quick meal.
Inside the diner, the aroma of bacon caused his stomach to complain yet again. He led her to an empty booth by the window. The seats were easy to nab with so many customers clustered around a radio on the counter. Too late in the year to be listening to the play-by-play of a Rainiers game. The announcer must have been relating the latest of FDR’s policies. When else would a crackling transistor warrant this much attention?
Usually, Lane would join in, craving every word from the President’s mouth. But not today. “I’m ready to order when you are.”
“Hold your horses,” she said, grabbing a menu from behind the napkin dispenser. “Let me see what they have at least.”
“Better make it snappy, ’cause my belly isn’t about to wait.”
“Jeez. What happened to chivalry? You
are
my husband now, aren’t you?”
“Hey, I swore to love and cherish. Never said anything about putting you before hunger.”
Mouth agape, she batted at his forearm, and they broke into laughter. When they settled into smiles, he clasped her fingers. She stared at their interwoven hands.
“Why do we have to go back to California?” she sighed. “Why can’t we just stay here?”
Lane mulled over the idea. It wasn’t impossible. He had plenty in savings to afford a couple more nights of heaven. “Who says we can’t?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I don’t have exams till Friday. And you said there’s nothing you have to rush home for.”
She studied him. “You’re serious.”
“What’s stopping us?”
“Well ... I told TJ I’d be back tomorrow... .”
“So, you’ll send him a telegram and let him know you’re staying a few more days.”
She hesitated, taking the suggestion in. “I guess I could. But—I didn’t pack many clothes.”
He leaned forward and answered in a hushed tone. “Mark my words. I’ll make sure you don’t need any of them.”
Her eyes widened, looking embarrassed. Then a giggle won out.
“Well, what do you say, Mrs. Moritomo?” His finger rested on her wedding band. “Want to treat this like a real honeymoon?”
She bit her lip, her cheeks still blushing. At last she nodded in earnest.
“Good.” He grinned. “Now, let’s eat, so we can hurry back to the room.” He twisted around to find a waitress and muttered, “Isn’t anyone working here?”
Through the dozen or so people gathered across the room, Lane spied flashes of pastel-blue diner dresses behind the counter. He waved his hand to no avail. The gals were too far away for a polite holler. Rising, he groaned before his gut could beat him to it.
“I’ll go get someone,” he told Maddie. As he moved closer to the group, mumbles gained clarity.
“Dear God.”
“How many were there?”
“What does this mean?”
He sidled up to a bearded stranger in back of the bunch. A faded denim shirt labeled the man approachable. “What’s going on?” Lane asked.
The guy answered without turning. “We been bombed,” he said in a daze of disbelief. “They’ve finally gone and done it.”
“
Bombed?
What are you talking about? Where?”
“Hawaii. They blasted our Navy clear outta the water.” The man shook his head. “We’re going to war, all right. No way around it.”
“But who?” Lane demanded. “Who did it?”
The guy angled toward Lane, mouth opening to reply, but he suddenly stopped. His eyes sharpened with anger that seemed to restore his awareness. “You oughta know,” he seethed. “Your people are the ones who attacked.”
The train’s whistle stretched out in the tone of an accusation. Once the locomotive had cleared the claustrophobia of Seattle’s looming buildings, Maddie forced her gaze up.
The Saturday Evening Post
lay limply on her lap
.
She’d absorbed nothing of the articles. Their print, like the universe, had blurred into smears of confusion.
She scanned the coach without moving her head. Her neck had become an over-tightened bow. Her wide-brimmed, tan-colored hat served as an accessory of concealment. Suspicious glares, however, targeted the suited man beside her: Lane, who hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the hotel. Lane, who could always be counted on for a smile. A guy who could conjure solutions like Aces from a magician’s sleeve.
Lane, her
husband.
The word hadn’t yet anchored in Maddie’s mind, and already dreams for their marriage were being stripped away.
In the window seat, he swayed with the rattling train car. A dull glaze coated his eyes as he stared through the pane. She yearned to console him, to tell him he wasn’t to blame. The Japanese pilots who’d decimated Pearl Harbor, a place she had heard of only that morning, had nothing to do with him.
You’re an American,
she wanted to say,
as American as I am, and we’ll get through this together.
But the sentence wound like a ball of wire in her throat, tense as the air around them. Any utterance would carry the projection of a scream in the muted coach. Helpless for an alternative, she inched her hand over to reunite with his. She made a conscious effort to evade scrutinizers’ eyes. Closure around Lane’s fingers jarred him from his reverie and he turned to face her. A warm half-smile rewarded her gesture. Then he glanced up as though recalling their audience, and the corners of his mouth fell. He squeezed her palm once, a message in the release, before leaning away.
For the rest of the trip, this was how they remained. Divided by a wall they’d had no say in constructing. Through the night hours, she heard him toss and turn on the berth beneath her; through the daylight hours, his gaze latched onto the mountains and valleys hurtling past.
Upon their debarking in Los Angeles, the contrast between Friday and Monday struck her like a slap. It seemed mere moments ago when she had stood on this platform, the same suitcase at her feet. Yet everything had since changed.
“Extra, extra!” the paperboy in the station hollered. “U.S. going to war! Read all about it!” His pitch carried easily over the graveness of the crowd. In small huddles, customers followed his order with newspapers propped in their hands. Headlines blared in thick black letters.
“Do you want me to come home with you?” Maddie asked Lane as they exited the station. The rustiness of her voice underscored the length of their silence.
“Nah, you’d best get home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Your brother’s got to be worried about you. It’s better if I check on my family alone.”
Of course. Nobody back here knew about their secret excursion. Now was hardly the time to announce their blissful news.
Lane added, “I’ll have a cab drop you on the way to my house, all right?”
She agreed, relieved they’d be together a little longer before facing the unknown.
A peaceful sunset glowed orange and pink as they approached the taxi stop. Lane swung open the back door of a Checker cab, inviting Maddie to slide in. He ducked in after her to take his seat.

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